


i could mean it if you like

by hamiltrashed



Series: The Room Where It Happens [4]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, Brief use of a tie as a restraint, Dildos, Everyone Feels Things, Historical fact of the day: Thomas Jefferson really liked mac & cheese, Like not involved in the sex but there is mac and cheese, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Sorry Not Sorry, There is mac and cheese in this fic, This is mostly just filthy porn and mac and cheese and emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Hamilton a month after the first time they fuck to give Jefferson the key. It only takes two days for him to want to take it back.</p><p>(Or, the one where there is banging and everybody has feelings they won't admit to having.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could mean it if you like

**Author's Note:**

> The third and final interlude before the Actual Sequel. 
> 
> Bless my darling Muffin, Michelle_A_Emerlind for betaing and being more excited about this one than I've ever seen anybody excited for anything. :D

It takes Hamilton a month after the first time they fuck to give Jefferson the key. It only takes two days for him to want to take it back. Because it’s two days after he places the little silver invitation in Jefferson’s palm that he comes home after working late again – long after Jefferson escapes right as the clock strikes five – and finds him in his kitchen, standing at the stove, an empty box of Kraft macaroni and cheese on the counter and a wooden spoon in hand.

Hamilton stands in the doorway to the kitchen and Jefferson acknowledges him by waving the spoon in his direction, then sticking it back in the pot to stir. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the macaroni boiling, and then Hamilton huffs. “When I gave you the key, it wasn’t so I could come home and find you making mac and cheese in my kitchen.”

Jefferson just nods, and Hamilton watches his face, but it betrays nothing. “Right,” he says, entirely deadpan. “It’s about _booty calls_. I’m not allowed to make you dinner.”

Hamilton snorts. “You’re allowed to _buy_ me dinner. As in like, a $15 steak at minimum. I let you fuck me when you get bored and you’re getting bored a lot lately. Kraft easy mac is not the kind of five star meal I had in mind as a trade off for my services.”

For the smallest moment, Jefferson’s face softens. “That’s what you think this is about? Boredom and quid pro quo?”

And Hamilton gapes at him, unsure what to make of this question, trying to seize upon it before Jefferson realises that he’s just said something that sounds suspiciously like he’s got other motives for being here. “What is it, then?” he asks. But it’s already too late. Jefferson is back to frowning at him like he never even stopped.

“Never mind. Anyway, I’m sure a boy like you has gotta hustle and make a little extra income on the side but prostitution is a bit beneath you, don’t you think?”

Hamilton’s pretty sure Jefferson just called him a whore in not so many words, but he ignores this, focuses instead on the implication that he’s in need of more money (which, while strictly true, is not about to be a point of discussion with _him_ ). “Says the man who just made easy mac in my kitchen. I know you’re not hurtin’ for cash, Jefferson. You can afford Velveeta at the very least.”

And just like that, the tension of the strange moment is broken. Jefferson laughs humourlessly and shoots him a glare. “You shut your damn dirty mouth, Alexander. Velveeta in no way compares and I’m offended that you’d think it would. No accounting for taste with you, is there?”

Hamilton just sighs and throws up his hands. “Fine. Make your _nutritious_ dinner or whatever. I’m going to change.” He turns on his heel and starts toward the bedroom, decidedly _not_ responding to Jefferson muttering things about him under his breath.

Hamilton returns to the kitchen a few minutes later, not sure whether or not he wants to care what Jefferson thinks of his old, plaid PJ bottoms, his oversized grey knit sweater, or the fact that his hair, previously in a neat ponytail, is now twisted up into the sloppiest bun imaginable. It’s not quite the sexiest he’s ever been, but this is his apartment, small and shitty though it may be, and Jefferson doesn’t get to demand that his after-work wardrobe be adapted to his taste.

He finds Jefferson sitting at the tiny table now, with a bowl of mac and cheese in hand. Jefferson raises it in greeting. “You want some or no?” Hamilton bites back a remark about how he’s seen roadkill more appetising than that and merely shakes his head. Jefferson shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Hamilton is restless. He doesn’t want to take the seat across from Jefferson at the table, as if this is some ‘hi-honey-how-was-your-day’ dinner with the Cleavers, but he feels awkward just standing there, watching him eat like it’s feeding time at the zoo. Instead, he huffs again, loudly enough to illustrate his annoyance with Jefferson’s all-too-domestic presence, and makes a show of half-stomping off to the living room like a child, throwing himself down on the couch and turning on the tiny television.

“Don’t be such a shit,” Jefferson calls after him, and Hamilton responds by turning up the volume. Jefferson isn’t wrong. He’s being a shit. But part of trying to keep Jefferson held away from him on a suitably long leash, a long enough leash to prevent himself from getting too attached to this thing they have going, is setting a list of house rules. And Hamilton thinks he was certainly clear enough when he handed Jefferson the key and told him that the only rule was to drop by when he wanted a fuck, and left it at that. He doesn’t think that _not_ laying out a literal list of things Jefferson _shouldn’t_ do is inviting him to do them.

But it’s too late for that now, he supposes. Jefferson is in his kitchen, at his table, eating macaroni and cheese after having snooped far enough through Hamilton’s cabinets and fridge to find what he needed. And, Hamilton thinks, his grocery list has now been updated with a need for milk and butter. His irritation only grows.

When he thinks his point has been made, Hamilton mutes the television to ask, “Are you actually here for a reason?” Translate: _the_ reason.

“Dunno,” Jefferson answers, and Hamilton listens as he stands up, pushes in his chair, and brings his dishes to the dishwasher. There’s a pause. “D’you want me to be?”

“Dunno,” Hamilton parrots, eyeing an explosion on the screen and wondering if there’s a metaphor in there for all of this. “Is your schedule too full with making pasta to fuck me?”

Jefferson makes a noise that Hamilton can’t quite identify, and then the dishwasher clicks on and Jefferson appears in the doorway between kitchen and living room, sipping one of Hamilton’s beers.

“Alexander, relax. It’s just macaroni. I’m still going to fuck you. And you’re still going to love every second and beg me for more.” The corner of his mouth turns up in a wicked smile.

Hamilton wants to smile, too, but this is not some cutesy make-up moment. So he just says, “Someone’s full of himself.”

Jefferson laughs. “And you’re going to be full of me too, sweetheart.”

Hamilton _does_ bite back a grin there, and he tells himself it’s just because it’s been a few days. He tells himself it’s because Jefferson is giving in, because he’s getting his way. But even as he thinks it, he knows it’s bullshit. He knows the real reason is because in spite of his better judgment, he actually looks forward to this, craves it. And maybe it’s down to the fact that he hasn’t had anything better than Netflix to look forward to in a while, even with Washington paying more attention to him… or maybe it’s down to the fact that he’s just becoming accustomed to the idea of Jefferson as a fixed point in his life. Either way, it’s mortifying to want something the way he wants this, so he keeps it to himself.

Jefferson takes a swig of the beer and steps into the livingroom, setting the bottle on the coffee table and not bothering to use a coaster. Hamilton opens his mouth to say something about it, but Jefferson’s hands move to the hem of his shirt (it’s so unusual to see him in a t-shirt, as if he’s actually a normal person) and he pulls it up and over his head. Just like always in this moment, words escape Hamilton. Because there’s ripped and then there’s Jefferson, and Hamilton desperately wants to run his fingers along rippling abs and firm biceps and fuck, _no._ There’s no urge there for those things, no urge to touch softly and fuck warmly and love sweetly. Even if there _were_ , Hamilton would shove all that deep down inside where it can’t be reached, because it’s already unwise enough to just do this, let alone actually feel something for the man.

But then Jefferson turns away from him, drops his shirt onto the coffee table, and Hamilton sucks in a hard breath, eyes going wide. His fingers twitch, and he’s about to reach out and touch, but he stops himself. “Did I… _shit_ , did I do that?”

Jefferson, busy with his belt, looks over his shoulder at Hamilton, one eyebrow raised. It doesn’t seem to bother him that his back is red with scratches; in fact, he smirks. “Who else?”

Hamilton blanches. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s ever apologised to Jefferson for anything – hopefully the last – but he means it.

Jefferson laughs and slides his belt through its loops, depositing that on the coffee table as well. “Don’t be, it’s okay.” His voice is quiet, his tone accepting, and for a moment, it’s the kindest thing Hamilton thinks Jefferson has ever said to him, but as usual, he quickly ruins it. “I like knowing I can fuck you so good that you don’t even know what you’re doing.”

Hamilton just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, watches as Jefferson’s jeans slide to the floor. “Then do it.”

“My, we’re impatient this evening. Demanding, too. You gonna behave, Alexander?”

And oh, it’s _on_ , right then. Before he can reign in his tongue, Hamilton leans forward from his spot on the couch and issues the challenge. “What are you gonna do if I don’t?”

Jefferson approaches, and Hamilton tries to keep his eyes from roaming every inch of his body, but that’s a feat he’s not quite been able to achieve. He stretches out a hand and Hamilton takes it, lets Jefferson pull him to his feet. There’s a momentary pause, where Hamilton thinks Jefferson won’t take the bait. But then he’s tugging Hamilton’s sweater off, grabbing at his ass and pulling his hips against his own, grinding against him, just long enough to get Hamilton half hard and making shameful little sounds. He presses his mouth right up against Hamilton’s ear and, a little belatedly, whispers, “I’m gonna take you apart.”

Hamilton tries not to, but he shivers, a full-on shudder creeping down his spine that makes him swallow hard and pant just a little bit. Jefferson doesn’t hesitate. He turns Hamilton away from him (and Hamilton thought they were past this), shoves his pajama bottoms down, running his fingers over one bare ass cheek. And then he pushes Hamilton down onto his knees on the couch, and says, “Stay.”

“I’m not your puppy,” Hamilton snaps, his annoyance compounded by the fact that he’s still growing harder by the second.

Jefferson just laughs. “I know. You can _train_ a puppy.”

He gives Hamilton’s ass a slap and retreats for just a moment while Hamilton fumes silently. When he comes back, he leans across Hamilton’s body, shifting and pushing him further into a position that makes him look as though he’s praying. And to top it off, his hands find Hamilton’s and press them together, too. A second later, Hamilton finds his wrists bound with what he recognises as one of his own ties, one of the only vaguely expensive ones he owns. But he doesn’t protest, mainly because his curiosity is peaked and Jefferson has never done anything like this. A part of him is already _dying_ for whatever comes next. Jefferson backs away again.

Hamilton tries to focus on the amount of dust in the small space between the couch and the wall, tries to ignore the way his spine is bowing into a question mark while he waits for Jefferson to make a move. He knows Jefferson is standing back, admiring his handiwork, as if Hamilton is a painting. And what a pretty picture this ought to make: his wrists tied together with his own tie, knees spread far enough apart that each digs into a separate couch cushion, chest pressed against the back of the couch while his ass is bare, in the air, and at the mercy of Jefferson.

Hamilton is _not_ pleased at how desperate he’s become. Desperation of any sort is nothing new to him, of course; his do-or-die attitude is what he’s predicated about 98% of his personality on. But this is a certain kind of neediness that he’s not at all proud of. It would take a stronger man than he to outright admit pleasure in being laid out like this, in being manhandled into this position, with his cock hard and straining and untouched, where the mere brush of suede fabric from the couch across his nipples is making him fucking _tremble_.

He can sense Jefferson’s amusement, his pride in the way he knows he’s making Hamilton feel. Hamilton can’t get a read on him past that, doesn’t know or want to ask if this is enjoyable for him in any other way that doesn’t revolve around making Hamilton his subordinate in every manner possible, if this is anything other than a fun night and an orgasm for him. That would come perilously close to marking the boundaries of this relationship, whatever it is, and Hamilton isn’t sure he wants that. To let Jefferson fuck him stupid is one thing; to do anything resembling _dating_ him is quite another.

“Don’t have all night for you to record this image for your spank bank,” Hamilton says finally, trying to make it sound as though this is inconveniencing him greatly, even though he’s positive he could not be doing anything better right now. “Get on with it.”

Jefferson approaches him – the room seems to shrink when he does – and runs one knuckle down Hamilton’s spine, making him arch even more, making him shiver once again. And then he presses himself close, lays his body along Hamilton’s and bites his shoulder, quick and hard and just enough to draw forth a whimper that Hamilton only barely swallows back down.

“You know,” Jefferson says, and his voice is that quiet combination of delectable and dangerous that Hamilton has started to hear in his dreams, “I’ve fucked a lot of slutty bottom boys, Alexander, but you are one of a kind.”

Hamilton grits his teeth, does not bother to argue with Jefferson’s analysis of him, and says, “Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“You’re the only one who begs with your body and not your mouth.” One hand comes up to Hamilton’s face, and Jefferson’s fingertips brush across his lips. “That’s a mouth too proud to tell me how bad you want it, and yet…” he pauses and runs the other hand along Hamilton’s stomach, just barely lets himself touch Hamilton’s cock. “This tells me _so_ much about how much you like it when I fuck you into next week. I know I don’t compliment you often and I think that’s for your own good, but the way your body moves with mine is something else.”

“It’s not really a compliment if it strokes your own ego,” Hamilton tells him and Jefferson laughs.

“Well, you’ve caught me there. Tell me, though, Alexander… do you think of me?”

“When?” Hamilton asks, even though he’s quite aware of exactly _when_ Jefferson is implying.

There’s a momentary pause where Jefferson moves away from him yet again, just long enough for Hamilton to almost hear the sound of his own heavy heartbeat, and then there’s the press of something cold and wet at his ass. Hamilton gasps, hips instinctively jerking forward and away, and he knows then that Jefferson has gone snooping.

“When you use this,” Jefferson finally responds. “Do you think of me?”

And Hamilton cranes his neck around for the first time, finds Jefferson holding a violently purple, seven and a half inch dildo in his hands.

“Where’d you find that?” Hamilton asks, instead of answering him.

“In your very adolescent hiding spot under the bed,” Jefferson tells him, refusing to be led away from the question. “Do you?”

Hamilton sneers at him and turns back away from him so he’s looking at the wall again, because he can’t admit it straight to the mocking tone in Jefferson’s voice, to genuinely inquisitive eyes. “Yes,” he mutters.

Jefferson sucks in air in faux-surprise, and breathes out in a _whoosh_. “Oh, and I bet you’re _so_ good at taking it.”

There’s a tease in his voice, a taunt that Hamilton does his best not to rise to. Instead, he demonstrates the validity of Jefferson’s statement by pushing backward so the very tip of the dildo presses just the barest millimeter past his entrance. Jefferson’s breath really does catch this time, and Hamilton is delighted to have earned that, to know that Jefferson is spreading him with one hand and carefully holding the toy in the other and that he’s still the one who made the first move before Jefferson could.

But Jefferson recovers quickly, gives one little push, and Hamilton suddenly feels the thickness of it starting to work him open. It barely hurts anymore, not after the amount of times he’s used it, not after Jefferson’s own cock; instead, it makes him grip the back of the couch, makes him rock his hips forward and then back until he takes almost the entire thing in one thrust.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Jefferson murmurs, and Hamilton only barely registers the sound of surprise in his voice. His knees are shaking, and Jefferson bottoms the thing out inside of him, presses it all the way in until Hamilton can feel it _everywhere_.

“Fuck,” Hamilton mumbles thickly, and his voice sounds to his own ears like he’s been anesthetised, and maybe he has in a certain way. A slow, pleasurable sedation is curling around his every muscle until he just relaxes against the couch, relaxes into the feeling of being full. And Jefferson… Jefferson’s got it right on the mark; with one more twist, one more thrust, the tip of the dildo hits home.

Perhaps it's just that it's someone else doing this to him, but he never seems to get the angle quite this good on his own. Or maybe it's just that Jefferson, whose hands and mind are magic, so _clearly_ magic, has worked the dildo into Hamilton like he does this for a living. Hamilton's teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he bites back a groan that threatens to tear itself from his throat with enough volume to shatter a window, lets it rest low in his chest like the rumble of a lion's growl. He lets his body drop so that his head is buried against the back of the couch, pushing his ass back as if he can take it any further than it already is, but damn, he's willing to try.

"Fuck me," Hamilton says through gritted teeth, and Jefferson laughs.

"Could do that," he replies. "Or I could stand here all night and watch you shake like that, full of cock you wish was mine and dripping like a fuckin' tap.”

Hamilton despises the way those words make him feel, despises how flushed and aroused and completely _screwed_ he is. "I hate you," he whispers to Jefferson, except for the part where he doesn't. Except for the part where his head is going so hazy and a dull throb that feels like orgasm is plucking at his spine like a bowstring.

Jefferson leans over him again, and Hamilton can feel the hard length of his cock pressing against his ass. Hamilton wonders which part of this is getting him going, wonders if it's the way he knows he already looks fucked out and still ready for more, or if it's the mere idea of being the only one Hamilton lets do this to him. Because surely Jefferson knows by now that despite a lack of stated exclusivity, there's just this, just them, and a burning pool of bitter annoyance at each other in each of them that is slowly dying down to embers.

Jefferson taps one finger against the end of the dildo, hard, and Hamilton feels it settle in further against his prostate. "Hate me but you don't hate this, huh? As much as you want to. I know the heart of you, Alexander. You keep telling yourself you don't want to do this anymore because you think you're above the things I can do to you. But name one other person that could do this even in your wildest fantasies. Name someone else who can make you come so hard you see stars."

For just an instant, with Jefferson’s provocation, his arrogance, the spell is broken. And for just an instant, Hamilton feels the challenge rise up in him again. Still through gritted teeth, he whispers, "Myself."

Jefferson laughs a deep belly laugh, as if Hamilton has just told him a very funny joke. "That so? Well, alright." And he grabs at Hamilton, pulls him into a standing position, the dildo moving inside him enough to make him cry out. And then Jefferson turns Hamilton back around to face him and pushes him down onto the couch. With his wrists bound, breathless and gasping as the toy hits exactly the right spot with the impact of landing on his ass on the couch, Hamilton can't even grasp at the cushions the way he wants to. Jefferson sneers at Hamilton in much the same way Hamilton had at him, and says, "Get yourself off."

Hamilton chokes on his own tongue. " _What_?"

"You heard me," Jefferson says. "Get yourself off if you think you can do a better job on yourself than me."

Hamilton stares at him, but the look on his face is unyielding, entirely serious. Finally, feeling himself blushing red, he murmurs, "I need you to untie my hands."

And Jefferson laughs again, deep as an ocean. "Oh, come now. I think you can be a little more creative than using your _hands_ , Alexander."

Hamilton knows that he could theoretically get somewhere jerking off with his wrists bound, except that it's uncomfortable and that alone isn't going to get him to the kind of orgasm he wants, the kind Jefferson gives him, the kind he would've gotten if he'd just kept his damn mouth shut. And there's a little bit of strange shame building in him then, at the way he's crippled merely by having his hands bound, at the way Jefferson is now settling into a chair across the living room, watching and waiting, studying the way he's shaking, the redness of his cheeks and the flushed skin across his chest.

Jefferson doesn't touch himself, not yet, and that only serves to make Hamilton feel as though the sight of him sitting there, figuring out what the hell to do, is not quite a good enough sight to get off to. So Hamilton gives a frustrated whine and pushes his feet in between the cushions to either side of him and the one he's sitting on, trying to brace them against the hard edge of the front of the couch. He rocks his hips forward then and pushes himself down, and it works, just briefly. It’s a poor imitation of riding the dildo, but he gets a few good thrusts in. He gasps, feels his muscles tighten around the toy, but then his feet slip and he's back in the same position as before. Except he's slid further down and the end of the dildo is no longer pressed into him by the plush cushion. He feels helpless and annoyed and he looks over to Jefferson, gets only an amused look back.

"Poor baby," Jefferson simpers. "Having trouble?"

"Fuck you," Hamilton hisses.

"Tell you what," Jefferson says, and his voice is that of a salesman, as if he's offering up some deal of a lifetime. "I'll come over there and _fuck you_ if you tell me all about the things you think about when you use that all by your lonesome."

Hamilton glares. This is the very definition of damned if he does or doesn't. Because if he says nothing, then he remains there, trying to figure out a way to get himself off without dying of blue balls first. And if he speaks, then Jefferson really wins, takes the cards that Hamilton is just barely holding close to his chest and declares himself some kind of king.

But Hamilton is desperate, because even with this thing stretching him wide and filling him up, he's still not getting what he really wants, and that's to come so hard he forgets his own name. And so he tries to ignore the tremor in his voice when he says, "Used to think about you. Before we ever... I just liked to think about you bending me over your desk and spanking me."

Hamilton closes his eyes for just a second, pulls up the old fantasy in his mind, remembers the way he used to imagine Jefferson dragging his pants down and leaving his ass covered in red handprints. And then he’d kiss them afterward, spread his cheeks apart and fuck him with his tongue and… _fuck._ Hamilton gasps, looks up at Jefferson to see his reaction. He notes a tiny intake of breath; clearly, this idea is of some interest to Jefferson, because he trails his fingers along his cock, runs his thumb over the head.

“That’s what you wanted?” Jefferson asks, and Hamilton nods, feels his cheeks still burning, feels his cock leaking precome against his stomach.

“Yes,” he says. “Wanted you to haul me over the desk for the way I used to tease you, tell me I’d been naughty and then spank me. Or did you never realise I used to try to get you to notice me?”

“I noticed,” Jefferson replies. “I know half your suits don’t fit you but those pants you used to wear… those were fucking obscene, Alexander.”

“I know,” Hamilton murmurs. “Did it to tease you…”

Jefferson just shakes his head. “Continue.”

“Fucked myself in the shower with it once, imagined it was you.” Jefferson hums quietly, but it sounds like the beginnings of a moan, and maybe this is turning him on after all. His hand strokes down his cock once, then back up, thumb circling the head again.

“How often?” Jefferson asks.

“All the time,” Hamilton whimpers, with no hesitation. He realises now that he’s not just admitting this to Jefferson, but himself. Through the haze of stretching himself open all those times with this same toy that’s driving him insane right now, through the satisfied feeling in all of his bones, he never quite thought about how frequent it had become, how he only had to think of Jefferson for a half second and his mind would be spinning in different directions, toward all these fantasies he had of him.

But now, he’s spilling it all like a sieve, and even the things he wants to hold back are on his tongue before he can stop them. Hamilton isn’t sure what he thought this night would amount to, but it certainly wasn’t telling Jefferson or acknowledging to himself that the idea of being on his knees, lips and tongue painted white with Jefferson’s come makes his cock throb with need.

“Tellin’ me _all_ your dirty secrets now, aren’t you?” Jefferson’s grin is a mile wide and he lazily slides down in the chair, back arching, long legs spread and hand still on his cock while he watches Hamilton.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” Hamilton says, and he squeezes his muscles around the toy, runs the knot of the tie around his wrists along the underside of his cock in desperation. He really does wish Jefferson would drop the pretense of pretending he doesn’t already understand that since the moment Hamilton met him, he’s wanted him.

“Tell me what else you want.”

Hamilton feels his lips purse with annoyance. “Why? So you can get off on the power you have? You’ve always known this.”

“But I’ve never gotten to hear all the dirty details before.” He gives Hamilton a smug look. “You write this all down in your diary, Alexander?”  

“Kiss my ass,” Hamilton snaps, and Jefferson laughs.

He imitates the curve of Hamilton’s ass with one hand. “That’s a _lot_ of ass to kiss, baby. Take me all night.”

“Guess you best get started then,” Hamilton shoots back. “You gonna help me or not?”

Jefferson sighs as if Hamilton is ruining his fun and gets to his feet. He crosses the room and kneels in front of Hamilton. It’s an interesting position, to be above him for once, but Jefferson doesn’t seem to be paying these details the same level of attention that Hamilton is. He merely unties Hamilton’s wrists with practised ease that makes Hamilton wonder about what he gets up to in his private time – except suddenly, Hamilton realises that he now _is_ Jefferson’s private time. For whatever reason, between this realisation and Jefferson on his knees, Hamilton know exactly what he wants in this moment. 

What was it Jefferson had said? _You beg with your body and not your mouth._ So Hamilton merely rocks his hips upward, meets Jefferson’s eyes, and begs with his body for Jefferson’s mouth. There’s a pause where Jefferson seems to realise what’s happening, that if he does what Hamilton wants him to do, the balance of power will shift just a little bit to weigh in Hamilton’s favour. And Hamilton is about to resign himself to Jefferson denying him anything he wants, everything, when Jefferson’s head is suddenly in his lap, when his lips are around his cock. 

Hamilton gasps, freed hands immediately taking up residence in Jefferson’s thick curls, hips bucking up to meet his mouth. It’s as close as Jefferson will let him get to fucking him, so Hamilton takes advantage of the moment, of the heat of his tongue, closes his eyes and imagines that if he came down Jefferson’s throat, it’d be so goddamn hot, so perfect, so… not about power, but about closeness. Isn’t that a startling thought.

Still, he relaxes into the couch, or tries to, until he feels Jefferson’s hand at his ass, and feels the abrupt sense of loss when Jefferson starts pulling the dildo free of him. It lasts only a second, and then he pushes it back, and suddenly, he’s fucking Hamilton and sucking him off at the same time, tongue flicking across the head of Hamilton’s dick while pressing the toy hard against his prostate. Hamilton lets himself be helpless to it, enjoys the (literal) push and pull of it, whimpers out, “Please, _please_ ” with no mental acuity left to know what he’s asking for. 

Jefferson seems to know, though. He tugs the toy free again and sets it aside on the couch, and there’s something entirely indecent about it lying there like that. And then he pulls his mouth away, too, and Hamilton whines at all the loss. But Jefferson gets to his feet and takes Hamilton’s spot on the couch, pulling him into his lap and dragging him in for a kiss. Hamilton tastes himself on Jefferson’s tongue and moans, now more needy than ever. Jefferson leans over to the end table next to the couch and comes up with a condom and a bottle of lube, also pilfered from Hamilton’s bedroom.  
  
A minute later, Hamilton slides down on Jefferson with embarrassing ease; heat coils in his gut, punches at him hard when Jefferson immediately thrusts up into him with abandon, as if he suddenly lacks all previously demonstrated control. But it’s only once, twice, a third time, and then he restrains himself, keeps his hips firmly planted on the couch. But Hamilton doesn’t want it slow, doesn’t want to wait anymore; he’s done his waiting and now he just wants to fuck, to _come_ , with Jefferson buried inside of him. 

He rolls his own hips, fast and rough and with little finesse, starts riding Jefferson until he feels it in his _bones_. And he’s close already, closer than he wants to be because he’d like to just do this all night, well into tomorrow. Less because it’s Jefferson and more because he’s addicted to the feeling of all the endorphins rushing through him; or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself. 

“Take it easy,” Jefferson says, but Hamilton shakes his head, so hard that his hair falls out of its band, spills across his shoulders.

“Don’t fuckin’ want to,” Hamilton answers, but it comes out as a growl, and he rocks his hips hard, so hard that Jefferson moans, _really_ moans, and that’s rare for him. Genuine moans are not something Jefferson is prone to. Hamilton thinks it’s because he feels as though it makes him weak or some other such bullshit, but it’s a good sound, a fucking wonderful sound, and it just makes him ride harder, faster, chasing orgasm for the both of them. 

Jefferson’s grip tightens on his hips, and Hamilton thinks that even though the toy stretches him just that little bit wider, it’s never going to be as good as the way Jefferson _throbs_ inside of him, the way he somehow just manages to hit that spot on every thrust and makes Hamilton’s belly tighten up with an insistent, almost uncomfortable pleasure.

But he clings desperately to the shore, even when the waves are threatening to crash over him at any given moment. Jefferson seems to accept that Hamilton’s not willing to slow down, and suddenly, without warning, he thrusts up into Hamilton, and without ever leaving him, moves the both of them so that Hamilton is on his back on the floor. He can’t figure out how they even got there, is too befuddled by the orgasm hanging over his head to care. He locks his legs around Jefferson, and Jefferson leans forward so that his knees are pressed up toward his chest, thrusts into him hard.

It doesn’t take long after that, not with the rug burn forming on his back, not with Jefferson’s hand working his cock, not with him fucking into him so good that for a moment, Hamilton forgets where he is, who he’s with. The head of his cock is slick and wet between Jefferson’s fingers as they tease the orgasm out of him. His toes curl, he arches away from the floor, and he barely has time to tell Jefferson that he’s there before he comes so hard that his mind goes blank. All he can comprehend is unrelenting ecstasy, the sweet headrush and Jefferson coming apart on top of him, collapsing into him, with his head between Hamilton’s neck and shoulder, the sharpness of Jefferson’s teeth biting at his collarbone.

It’s a long time before Jefferson moves, or only seconds; Hamilton can’t conceive of time continuing to move when his whole body is still, tensed and taut and waiting. But eventually, Jefferson rolls away from him, leaves a good foot of space between their fuck-drunk bodies, and says nothing. But his body speaks volumes the way he says Hamilton’s does, and like Hamilton, there is beggary in the way he leaves a hand outstretched between them, as if daring Hamilton to take it. There is fire in his eyes, even as they close and he turns his face away, but it no longer feels like hate. And when he mutters a soft curse word, Hamilton senses it’s said with the knowledge that he’s just as screwed as Hamilton.

Hamilton can't help but feel as though something has slipped, a pretense or a mask; underneath, something open and sensitive and tender waits to be touched. And both of them are scrambling to pull the wool back over the other's eyes, to put everything back in place and stop prodding at it, even if it's inevitable that they will go seeking after each other and stumble across it again.  
  
Lying here on the floor, gasping and panting like neither of them have ever felt air in their lungs, Hamilton comes to the conclusion that soon enough, they'll have to stop hiding from each other in plain sight. All things come to light in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the song "Young Blood" by Saint Raymond.


End file.
